


All Ate Up

by Dogtagsandsmut



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous ending. It's not sad, Bucky Barnes is a damaged little boy, Bucky is damaged but getting there, Did I Mention Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending?, M/M, Military, Military Uniforms, NCOs being NCOs, No substance, Not happy ending., Officers being incompetent but lovable, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seriously fluff, Steve being Steve, Uniform Kink, Uniforms, but it's not joyful either, just feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogtagsandsmut/pseuds/Dogtagsandsmut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All NCOs knew: officers were great at noting deficiencies and complaining to no end about them. But it was the NCO’s job to actually fix said deficiencies. However, in Bucky’s experience, most officers walked around wearing their deficiencies on their chests, literally, and Steve Rogers was no exception. </p><p>Or, the one where Steve's uniform is jacked up due to noobness and it's on poor suffering Bucky to fix it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Ate Up

**Author's Note:**

> *All ate up: for one's uniformed appearance, military presence and bearing, or general soldier-ness to be substandard, thus inviting more senior rated soldiers to eat one for lunch. See: all fucked up; dicked up; jacked up, noob, 10 up, 2 down (8 up); shitbag; the bootest boot that ever boot; butter bar; FNG (fucking new guy); bag of dicks; shit sandwich, let's all take a bite; soup sandwich, now the bread's wet; that's not even A technique let alone THE technique; Private Whatthefuck; whiskey tango foxtrot; way to break it, hero; BOHICA (bend over, here it comes again).
> 
> This fic was born of me complaining to another soldier in my unit about the bad costuming of Steve's Eisenhower uniform in CA:TFA. Specifically the pins, which are just, wowee, just all ate up. He said something to the effect of how as Army officers, we're really good at spotting uniform deficiencies on our subordinates, and bitching about them, but when it comes down to it, it's the NCOs that actually unfuck the subordinates. Which is probably for the best, because for an officer, I have the temper of a pissed off, shit on NCO. So, thanks, James, my reluctant fanfic cheerleader. This one's for you.

Bucky resisted the temptation to rub his palms over his exhausted face. He settled for shaking his head lightly as his eyes reviewed the man standing in front of him.

Intellectually, he knew that Steve was starting out at a considerable disadvantage to most soldiers in his pay grade. His basic training had been less than a week long. He’d never gone through _any_  formal officer training. Then he’d been paraded around in a costume that amounted to nylons and very short shorts with a tin shield, for far too long before the Brass got its head out of its ass. That wasn’t no way for a grown fella to be used, ‘specially _Steve_. But this…well, this at least was to be expected.

All NCOs knew: officers were great at noting deficiencies and complaining to no end about them. But it was the NCO’s job to actually fix said deficiencies. However, in Bucky’s experience, most officers walked around wearing _their_ deficiencies on their chests, literally, and Steve Rogers was no exception.

“Come here, you jerk.”

Steve quirked an eyebrow, but moved forward into Bucky’s reach nevertheless. Bucky thought that even with the added height and poundage, he looked impossibly young and impossibly proud, in his brand new dress uniform.

And impossibly ate up.

Bucky reached out, sliding a hand into the jacket of Steve’s Eisenhower, grinning wickedly as Steve’s breath hitched and his pupils dilated. Here, in the comfort of their tent, just him and his commander, he was free to touch in this way. He trailed his palm up the planes of Steve’s newfound six pack, and over to his left pec. Then he pinched the grommets that were holding Steve’s jump wings in place, and yanked. He let them drop into his cupped hand, and pulled them out of Steve’s jacket, holding the pair between his thumb and index finger. He waved them in front of Steve’s face, before slipping them into the blond’s trouser pocket.

“Your jump wings ‘r off. They need to be higher up. By about an 8th of an inch.”

“Then as my NCO in charge, you should probably fix them, Buck.”

Bucky snorted, but extracted the pin from the jacket. “Yeah but see here, _sir._ Your ribbons are off too, embarrassingly few as they may be.”

Steve rolled his eyes but played the indignant officer anyway, knowing it was what Bucky wanted. He drew himself to full height, all stubborn jaw and sass. “I’ll have you _know,_ Sergeant, that that’s a purple heart with valor.”

“Yeah, and you can thank me for that one, too. Sweeping in to save me, like I was some dame in distress…”

Steve snerked. “Fine, Buck. Why are my ribbons wrong?”

“They’re also too low. They’re almost pressing up against your CIB.”

Steve visibly cringed. Ribbons were impossible to get straight, but he was sure his were. If he had to move them up, it was going to take another 30 minutes of sticking himself and cursing his uniform to get them straight again. “Can’t I just move the infantry badge down a bit?”*

“Nope,” Bucky said gently, smiling. “The CIB is perfect where it is.” He paused a bit, one ear cocked out and listening for the sound of footsteps outside their tent, before leaning in slowly and kissing Steve softly, long and chaste.

Steve worried Bucky’s bottom lip for a bit before reluctantly drawing far enough away to let Bucky fix the rest of his pins. With deft, practiced hands, the sergeant retrieved the grommets, resituated the ribbons the correct distance from the infantry badge, and pinned the jump wings off of that. Then he stepped back and eyed the rest of Steve’s uniform critically before sighing.

“What?”

“Your unit citation is crooked. And…” He sighed again.

“What,” Steve groused, drawing the word out.

“Your branch pins are uneven. Basically, everything you tried to pin on yourself? Never try to pin those on, yourself. Nobody ever gets it right when they don’t got a second person to help ‘em.”

“I laid it out on my cot...”

“Exactly,” Bucky interrupted. “You lay it on your cot, it looks straight. But you’re a beefcake now, Stevie. Once you put the jacket on, it fills out. Now nothing’s straight even though it looked like it was before. Get it?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Steve said, resigned. Bucky pouted.

“Hey now, don’t go looking like I kicked your dog, punk. Come here.” And he wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist as the taller man moved into his embrace. “Now look here. Nobody gets it right the first time. There’s a reason everyone hates the dress mess. And anyway, you’re an officer; nobody expects you to get it right _any time_ , hear?”

Steve looked at him then, earnest. For a moment, Bucky could see the man his lover had been, before the serum—brave, and determined, and the littlest bit insecure. Steve bit his lip.

“I just want to do the uniform justice, Buck.”

“I know pal. And you will; you will. Just. Come here. Lemme strip the whole mess of it back off of ya, huh? Then afterwards we can fix it together.” And he waggled his eyebrows, grinning. Steve barked out a laugh like he couldn’t help it, and leaned back in. Bucky’s eyes dropped shut as he leaned in too, and he felt like the luckiest guy in the world. He'd make sure Steve was never all ate up.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Buck?”

Bucky didn’t start, not visibly, but it took effort to pull his thoughts away from the path they were on, and regroup. He cursed under his breath in Russian, soft enough to almost not be heard but for Steve’s super ears.

“Bucky,” Steve chastised softly, and Bucky made himself swivel on the ottoman he had parked himself on, made himself face Steve. Because of course he would face Steve, he would always face him.

“I gotta go soon. The quinjet takes off in 15. You gonna be alright here by yourself for a few days?”

Bucky wanted to speak but experience had taught him that the words coating his tongue would come out garbled. Polygotted. Halting, and hesitant. So he said nothing and opted to instead peer at Steve through his protective curtain of hair.

Steve sighed. “Maybe I should wait.”

“Go,” Bucky said quietly.

Steve shook his head. “It’s too soon. We just now got you back to some...some semblance of normal. They can do without me on this one.

Bucky shook his head, unkept hair shaking with him. “No,” he said, softly. “You need to go. It’s. It’s what you do best, Stevie,” he argued, trying the endearment out for size. It seemed to work on Steve because his eyes went soft for a moment. “Come here.”

“Still making sure my uniform’s squared away, Buck?”

“Nothing t’ fix,” he muttered, but Steve stepped up to the man nevertheless. Bucky stood. “Chokewire,” he murmered, wrapping a thin metal cord into the seam of Steve’s uniform cuff. “Razor blade,” as he slid the object in between two Kevlar plates over Steve’s chest. “Handcuff key. You got a zipper?”

“Yeah, but it’s covered by this panel,” Steve said, unvelcroing a strip of fabric around his neck.

“Perfect,” Bucky said, and secured the key to the pulldown of the zipper. “It’s plastic so it won’t set off metal detectors. Same with the blade, ‘cept it’s ceramic.”

“Bucky.” Steve reached out both hands to clasp Bucky’s shoulders, steadying. “It’s a standard mission,” he soothed, smoothing over Bucky’s biceps reassuringly, palm warming the metal of Bucky’s bionic arm. “No surprises, I’m sure of it. I’ll be fine.”

“Can’t lose you again,” Bucky said, pressing into Steve’s chest as the bigger man’s arms came up to wrap around him. Steve pressed a kiss to his temple, huffing out a breath.

“You won’t. I promise. I’m coming back safe and sound. Sergeant.”

“See that you do. Sir.” Bucky pulled back, kissing Steve deeply, right in the middle of Stark Tower, because he could, because nothing was stopping them now. Steve kissed back as good as he got, pulling back only with extreme reluctance. He darted back in once more to steal a chaste kiss before pulling out of Bucky’s arms for good.   
  
“I’ll see you soon.”

Bucky nodded, sinking back down into the ottoman and watching Steve walk away with a hollow feeling in his chest. He didn’t bother pushing the feeling down, like he usually did.

Steve didn’t need someone to check over his uniform anymore. But Bucky knew he would always be allowed to. And he would always do it. Because taking care of Steve Rogers was Bucky Barnes’s job, and he would make sure that Steve was _never_ all ate up.

 

Fin.

 

*No soldier I've ever met, no matter how dedicated to the service he/she is, doesn't wish he/she could cheat at uniform pins. I'm a perfectionist in all I do for my unit, and even I throw my hands in the air in despair at the thought of repinning my Dress Blues. Because fuck that noise, for real. Can't I pay someone to do this?!

 

So that's it, that's all there is. Hope I didn't leave you too unsatisfied. I don't ship Stucky except when I accidentally do. But if the stars align correctly, I have a Brock Rumlow Gaslights the Fuck Out of Steven Grant Rogers and Makes him Cry but It's Okay Because Bucky Fixes It In the End, He's Nice Like That fic in the works. So I got that going for me, which is okay.


End file.
